Cold Heaven
by Altariel
Summary: Four Yuletides in Gondor. Adrahil, Finduilas, Ecthelion, Denethor, Aragorn, Faramir, Eowyn.


**Cold Heaven**

_Mettar__ë_ _2976 TA_

When Finduilas of Dol Amroth agreed to marry the Lord Denethor, many in Belfalas had a great deal to say on the subject. It was long past time that the Steward's heir married – hadn't everyone been saying that for a while now? But she was so young and vibrant, they said, while he…

Well. The right man for these times, it was generally agreed, but not exactly what you might call warm, and you did want the best for her…

Within the family, Denethor was made welcome – he was the son of the Lord of Gondor, after all, but it was also plain that he loved Finduilas deeply. Even so, a week before the wedding, Adrahil took her aside and said, "None of us would be angry, you know, if you changed your mind."

"Father," she said (she looked shocked), "why would I do that?"

_Because he is so cold…_

"Finduilas, my dearest, I must ask – do you understand entirely what this marriage will entail? What this task is, being the wife of this man?"

His daughter looked back at him, and before his eyes she seemed to alter. She turned older, sterner. Adrahil glimpsed the old bones of Númenor poking through; proud and grave and unyielding. _Oh yes_, he thought, _she understands_; and his heart quailed for her – this little girl who had danced through his halls and his heart – but he saw too, with perhaps some satisfaction, that he had raised a woman right for the times.

Besides, she was in love – and who could argue with that?

So it was that in the year 2976 of the Third Age (Steward's Reckoning), on the day of _mettar__ë_ (she always loved _mettar__ë_), Finduilas of Belfalas wedded Denethor of Gondor, in her father's halls, and they took oaths to love and honour and succour one another. She wore white, with diamonds in her hair, and her lord wore black and silver. They were garlanded with leaves of evergreen, and he gave her emeralds.

The words were said, and the bond was forged. Adrahil looked at them, standing together, arm-in-arm, and his heart shivered again. They were like their own effigies. As they took to the floor for the first dance, he turned his eyes skywards, and he hoped that Varda would look kindly on this union, that Yavanna would make it fruitful, and that Mandos would not judge them all too harshly.

* * *

_Mettar__ë_ _2980 TA_

They loved her in the City as they had loved her by the Sea. They loved her more than they loved her husband, that was for sure. Ecthelion adored her too. "White swan," he called her. "A breath of sea air." Adored her; indulged her. Opened his house to her. Whatever she wanted, she received.

The days grew darker. Winter drew near. The White Tower filled with lights and green leaves, and a small boy causing mayhem. That evening, Finduilas danced with everyone, as if by keeping in motion she might ward off the night. When she took to the floor with Thorongil, Ecthelion saw flint in his son's eyes.

"Don't be a fool," he said. He often felt impatient with his son. "She's yours."

Later, the Steward's heir and his lady took to the floor together. Ecthelion watched them carefully, turning and turning about the hall, holding each other at arm's length. His heart shook at the sight of them.

For the truth was that he feared for her, here in his stone city, as the shadows lengthened. He feared the burden of the years ahead – which would be theirs, not his – and the toll that it would take. And most of all he feared because he doubted his son.

When the time came, he called Finduilas to him and set her young hand upon his old one. They lit the first candle together. "The darkness passes," they said together, "and the light shall return." For a brief and guttering moment, Ecthelion believed.

* * *

_Mettar__ë_ _3018 TA_

Thirty years had passed since they laid her to rest. He had sent her sons away: one north, on a fruitless quest; one east, to a country under shadow.

Denethor sat in the White Tower, hands clasped before him, and counted his losses. He thought of years past – those few short years together – when it had seemed to him that he too might possess what others possessed. He thought of that single year when their home had been full – his father, his wife, two sons… She had always loved this season, but the boys seemed to have lit a fire beneath her. That year the lamps burned more brightly than ever before; the halls were filled with green leaves; wherever he turned there were children laughing.

Then it all slipped from his grasp. Ecthelion, hale one day, gone the next. Her eyes turned eastwards, and she altered. Nothing, it seemed, could keep her with them. Not their boys; certainly not him.

"Look at me," he begged her, one terrible cold night. "Finduilas – look at me!"

But she no longer saw them. She saw only what was coming. She saw her sons in pain, and that, it seemed, could not be borne…

No, no, none of it could be borne. As the long years passed without her, he found himself regretting every moment of their time together; regretting the hazard that had been their love, their union, their sons. He would take it all back, if he could, if that would keep her living.

The sun set. He stood in his halls and lit the candle, and marked the turning of the year with formal words that gave scant comfort. He missed her. He missed each one of them, but he missed her most of all.

_Finduilas_, he thought; _my love, my jewel – I should never have brought you here_.

* * *

_Mettar__ë_ _3020 TA_

As winter approached, the White Lady of Rohan returned from Edoras to the Citadel of Minas Tirith, and there, on the shortest day, as the sun set and the lamps were lit, she wed Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, and Prince of Ithilien. They exchanged swords, and rings, and swore oaths in two tongues to love and honour and succour one another.

If Arwen was the Evenstar, Aragorn thought, then Éowyn was the morning sun: green and white and gold and new and swiftly rising. _Frost_, people said about her, _cold_; but this day her youth and beauty blazed through Minas Tirith. The Prince, in black and silver, caught and reflected her fierce joy.

They stood together, arm-in-arm, before their king and queen. They were young, and strong, and had come through fire and grief and darkness to stand together here, victorious. _The sun and the moon_, Elessar thought. _Unbreakable._ _I shall be glad to have them at my side. _

Later, leaving the hall in search of fresh air, Aragorn stood before the fountain. Behind him, he heard music and laughter; in the circles below, too, there was light and merrymaking such that the city had not seen on this day in many long years. He leaned against the wall, and watched his breath curl like smoke in the cold night air. Finduilas, he remembered, had loved this time of year: the lanterns; the green garlands; the singing and the dancing. She had been happy, at this time of year.

The King of the West looked up at the dark blue heavens. He lifted his hands, as if to net the stars, then clasped them together.

"Here," he said, "I hold them here. I shall take good care of them, and theirs."

A soft wind rose; a cool breath touched his cheek. He pressed his fingertips against his lips, and then let the blessing fly – fly with them beyond the circles of the city, beyond the circles of the world.

* * *

_Altariel, 12__th__ December 2019_


End file.
